To Hell Or Connacht

And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death,
and Hell followed with him.
Revelations 6:8. 

In republics, it is a fundamental principle, that the majority govern, and that the minority comply with the general voice.
—Oliver Ellsworth.

In all Republics the voice of a majority must prevail.
—Andrew Jackson.

 

“They are at the present eating, or have already eaten, their seed potatoes and seed corn, to preserve life,” goes the sentence from the Proceedings of the Mansion House Committee for the Relief of Distress in Ireland During the Months of January and February, 1880. Not many are aware, but the Great Hunger of 1845-52 (or, in Gaelic, an Gorta Mór) was not the last Irish potato famine; by the autumn of 1879, the crop had failed and starvation loomed for thousands—especially in the west of the country, in Connacht. (Where, Oliver Cromwell had said two centuries before, was one choice for Irish Catholics to go if they did not wish to be murdered by Cromwell’s New Model Army—the other being Hell.) But this sentence records the worst fear: it was because the Irish had been driven to eat their seed potatoes in the winter of 1846 that the famine that had been brewing since 1845 became the Great Hunger in the year known as “Black ’47”: although what was planted in the spring of 1847 largely survived to harvest, there hadn’t been enough seeds to plant in the first place. Hence, everyone who heard that sentence from the Mansion House Committee in 1880 knew what it meant: the coming of that rider on a pale horse spoken of in Revelations. It’s a history lesson I bring up to suggest that “eating your seed corn” also explains the coming of another specter that many American intellectuals may have assumed lay in the past: Donald Trump.

There are two hypotheses about the rise of Donald Trump to the presumptive candidacy of the Republican Party. The first—that of many Hillary Clinton Democrats—is that Trump is tapping into a reservoir of racism that is simply endemic to the United States: in this view, “’murika” is simply a giant cesspool of hate waiting to break out at any time. But that theory is an ahistorical one: why should a Trump-like candidate—that is, one sustained by racism—only become the presumptive nominee of a major party now? “Since the 1970s support for public and political forms of discrimination has shrunk significantly” says one voice on the subject (Anna Maria Barry-Jester’s, surveying many sociological studies for FiveThirtyEight). If the studies Barry-Jester highlights are correct, and yet levels of racism remain precisely the same as in the past, then that must mean that the American public is not getting less racist—but instead merely getting better at hiding it. That then raises the question: if the level of racism still remains as high as in the past, why wasn’t it enough to propel, say, former Alabama governor George Wallace to a major party nomination in 1968 or 1972? In other words, why Trump now, rather than George Wallace then? Explaining Trump’s rise as due to racism has a timing problem: it’s difficult to think that, somehow, racism has become more acceptable today than it was forty or more years ago.

Yet, if not racism, then what is fueling Trump? Journalist and gadfly Thomas Frank suggests an answer: the rise of Donald Trump is not the result of racism, but of efforts to fight racism—or rather, the American Left’s focus on racism at the expense of economics. To wildly overgeneralize: Trump is not former Republican political operative Karl Rove’s fault, but rather Fannie Lou Hamer’s.

Although little known today, Fannie Lou Hamer was once famous as a leader of the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party’s delegation to the 1964 Democratic Party Convention. On arrival Hamer addressed the convention’s Credentials Committee to protest the seating of Mississippi’s “regular” Democratic delegation on the grounds that Mississippi’s official delegation, an all-white slate of delegates, had only become the “official” delegation by suppressing the votes of the state’s 400,000 black people—which had the disadvantageous quality, from the national party’s perspective, of being true. What’s worse, when the “practical men” sent to negotiate with her—especially Senator Hubert Humphrey of Minnesota—asked her to step down her challenge on the pragmatic grounds that her protest risked losing the entire South for President Lyndon Johnson in the upcoming general election, Hamer refused: “Senator Humphrey,” Hamer rebuked him; “I’m going to pray to Jesus for you.” With that, Hamer rejected the hardheaded, practical calculus that informed Humphrey’s logic; in doing so, she set a example that many on the American Left have followed since—an example that, to follow Frank’s argument, has provoked the rise of Trump.

Trump’s success, Frank explains, is not the result of cynical Republican electoral exploitation, but instead because of policy choices made by Democrats: choices that not only suggest that cynical Republican choices can be matched by cynical Democratic ones, but that Democrats have abandoned the key philosophical tenet of their party’s very existence. First, though, the specific policy choices: one of them is the “austerity diet” Jimmy Carter (and Carter’s “hand-picked” Federal Reserve chairman, Paul Volcker), chose for the nation’s economic policy at the end of the 1970s. In his latest book, Listen, Liberal: or, Whatever Happened to the Party of the People?, Frank says that policy “was spectacularly punishing to the ordinary working people who had once made up the Democratic base”—an assertion Frank is hardly alone in repeating, because as noted not-radical Fortune magazine has observed, “Volcker’s policies … helped push the country into recession in 1980, and the unemployment rate jumped from 6% in August 1979, the month of Volcker’s appointment, to 7.8% in 1980 (and peaked at 10.8 % in 1982).” And Carter was hardly the last Democratic president who made economic choices contrary to the interests of what might appear to be the Democratic Party’s constituency.

The next Democratic president, Bill Clinton, after all put the North American Free Trade Agreement through Congress: an agreement that had the effect (as the Economic Policy Institute has observed) of “undercut[ing] the bargaining power of American workers” because it established “the principle that U.S. corporations could relocate production elsewhere and sell back into the United States.” Hence, “[a]s soon as NAFTA became law,” the EPI’s Jeff Faux wrote in 2013, “corporate managers began telling their workers that their companies intended to move to Mexico unless the workers lowered the cost of their labor.” (The agreement also allowed companies to extort tax breaks from state and municipal coffers by threatening to move, with the attendant long-term costs—including an inability to fight for workers.) In this way, Frank says, NAFTA “ensure[d] that labor would be too weak to organize workers from that point forward”—and NAFTA has also become the basis for other trade agreements, such as the Trans-Pacific Partnership backed by another Democratic administration: Barack Obama’s.

That these economic policies have had the effects described is, perhaps, debatable; what is not debatable, however, is that economic inequality has grown in the United States. As the Pew Research Center reports, “in real terms the average wage peaked more than 40 years ago,” and as Christopher Ingraham of the Washington Post reported last year, “the fact that the top 20 percent of earners rake in over 50 percent of the total earnings in any given year” has become something of a cliché in policy circles. Ingraham also reports that “the wealthiest 10 percent of U.S. households have captured a whopping 76 percent of all the wealth in America”—a “number [that] is considerably higher than in other rich nations.” These figures could be multiplied; they represent a reality that even Republican candidates other than Trump—who for the most part was the only candidate other than Bernie Sanders to address these issues—began to respond to during the primary season over the past year.

“Today,” said Senator and then-presidential candidate Ted Cruz in January—repeating the findings of University of California, Berkeley economist Emmanuel Saez—“the top 1 percent earn a higher share of our national income than any year since 1928.” While the cause of these realities are still argued over—Cruz for instance sought to blame, absurdly, Obamacare—it’s nevertheless inarguable that the country has become radically remade economically over recent decades.

That reformation has troubling potential consequences, if they have not already themselves become real. One of them has been adequately described by Nobel Prize-winning economist Joseph Stiglitz: “as more money becomes concentrated at the top, aggregate demand goes into a decline.” What Stiglitz means is this: say you’re Mitt Romney, who had a 2010 income of $21.7 million. “Even if Romney chose to live a much more indulgent lifestyle” than he actually does, Stiglitz says, “he would only spend a fraction of that sum in a typical year to support himself and his wife in their several homes.” “But take the same amount of money and divide it among 500 people,” Stiglitz continues, “say, in the form of jobs paying $43,400 apiece—and you’ll find that almost all of the money gets spent.” That expenditure represents economic activity: as should surely, but apparently isn’t to many people, be self-evident, a lot more will happen economically if 500 people split twenty million dollars than if one person has all of it.

Stiglitz, of course, did not invent this argument: it used to be bedrock for Democrats. As Frank points out, the same theory was advanced by the Democratic Party’s presidential nominee—in 1896. As expressed by William Jennings Bryan at the 1896 Democratic Convention, the Democratic idea is, or used to be, this one:

There are two ideas of government. There are those who believe that, if you will only legislate to make the well-to-do prosperous, their prosperity will leak through on those below. The Democratic idea, however, has been that if you legislate to make the masses prosperous, their prosperity will find its way up through every class which rests upon them.

To many, if not most, members of the Democratic Party today, this argument is simply assumed to fit squarely with Fannie Lou Hamer’s claim for representation at the 1964 Democratic Convention: on the one hand, economic justice for working people; on the other, political justice for those oppressed on account of their race. But there are good reasons to think that Hamer’s claim for political representation at the 1964 convention puts Bryan’s (and Stiglitz’) argument in favor of a broadly-based economic policy in grave doubt—which might explain just why so many of today’s campus activists against racism, sexism, or homophobia look askance at any suggestion that they demonstrate, as well, against neoliberal economic policies, and hence perhaps why the United States has become more and more unequal in recent decades.

After all, the focus of much of the Democratic Party has been on Fannie Lou Hamer’s question about minority representation, rather than majority representation. A story told recently by Elizabeth Kolbert of The New Yorker in a review of a book entitled Ratf**ked: The True Story Behind the Secret Plan to Steal America’s Democracy, by David Daley, demonstrates the point. In 1990, it seems, Lee Atwater—famous as the mastermind behind George H.W. Bush’s presidential victory in 1988 and then-chairman of the Republican National Committee—made an offer to the Congressional Black Caucus, as a result of which the “R.N.C. [Republican National Committee] and the Congressional Black Caucus joined forces for the creation of more majority-black districts”—that is, districts “drawn so as to concentrate, or ‘pack,’ African-American voters.” The bargain had an effect: Kolbert mentions the state of Georgia, which in 1990 had nine Democratic congressmen—eight of whom were white. “In 1994,” however, Kolbert notes, “the state sent three African-Americans to Congress”—while “only one white Democrat got elected.” 1994 was, of course, also the year of Newt Gingrich’s “Contract With America” and the great wave of Republican congressmen—the year Democrats lost control of the House for the first time since 1952.

The deal made by the Congressional Black Caucus in other words, implicitly allowed by the Democratic Party’s leadership, enacted what Fannie Lou Hamer demanded in 1964: a demand that was also a rejection of a political principle known as “majoritarianism”—the right of majorities to rule. It’s a point that’s been noticed by those who follow such things: recently, some academics have begun to argue against the very idea of “majority rule.” Stephen Macedo—perhaps significantly, the Laurance S. Rockefeller Professor of Politics and the University Center for Human Values at Princeton University—recently wrote, for instance, that majoritarianism “lacks legitimacy if majorities oppress minorities and flaunt their rights.” Hence, Macedo argues, “we should stop talking about ‘majoritarianism’ as a plausible characterization of a political system that we would recommend” on the grounds that “the basic principle of democracy” is not that it protects the interests of the majority but instead something he calls “political equality.” In other words, Macedo asks: “why should we regard majority rule as morally special?” Why should it matter, in other words, if one candidate should get more votes than another? Some academics, in short, have begun to wonder publicly about why we should even bother holding elections.

What is so odd about Macedo’s arguments to a student of American history, of course, is that he is merely echoing certain older arguments—like this one, from the nineteenth century: “It is not an uncommon impression, that the government of the United States is a government based simply on population; that numbers are its only element, and a numerical majority its only controlling power,” this authority says. But that idea is false, the writer goes on to say: “No opinion can be more erroneous.” The United States is, instead, “a government of the concurrent majority,” and “population, mere numbers,” are, “strictly speaking, excluded.” It’s an argument that, as it is spieled out, might sound plausible; after all, the structure of the government of the United States does have a number of features that are, “strictly speaking,” not determined solely by population: the Senate and the Supreme Court, for example, are pieces of the federal government that are, in conception and execution, nearly entirely opposed to the notion of “numerical majority.” (“By reference to the one person, one vote standard,” Francis E. Lee and Bruce I. Oppenheimer observe for instance in Sizing Up the Senate: The Unequal Consequences of Equal Representation, “the Senate is the most malapportioned legislature in the world.”) In that sense, then, one could easily imagine Macedo having written the above, or these ideas being articulated by Fannie Lou Hamer or the Congressional Black Caucus.

Except, of course, for one thing: the quotes in the above paragraph were taken from the writings of John Calhoun, the former Senator, Secretary of War, and Vice President of the United States—which, in one sense, might seem to give the weight of authority to Macedo’s argument against majoritarianism. At least, it might if not for a couple of other facts about Calhoun: not only did he personally own dozens of slaves (at his plantation, Fort Hill; now the site of Clemson University), he is also well-known as the most formidable intellectual defender of slavery in American history. His most cunning arguments after all—laid out in such works as the Fort Hill Address and the Disquisition on Government—are against majoritarianism and in favor of slavery; indeed, to Calhoun they are much the same: anti-majoritarianism is more or less the same as being pro-slavery. (A point that historians like Paul Finkelman of the University of Tulsa have argued is true: the anti-majoritarian features of the U.S. Constitution, these historians say, were originally designed to protect slavery—a point that might sound outré except for the fact that it was made at the time of the Constitutional Convention itself by none other than James Madison.) And that is to say that Stephen Macedo and Fannie Lou Hamer are choosing a very odd intellectual partner—while the deal between the RNC and the Congressional Black Caucus demonstrates that those arguments are having very real effects.

What’s really significant, in short, about Macedo’s “insights” about majoritarianism is that, as a possessor of a named chair at one of the most prestigious universities in the world, his work shows just how a concern, real or feigned, for minority rights can be used as a means of undermining the very idea of democracy itself. It’s in this way that activists against racism, sexism, homophobia and other pet campus causes can effectively function as what Lenin called “useful idiots”: by dismantling the agreements that have underwritten the existence of a large and prosperous proportion of the population for nearly a century, “intellectuals” like Macedo may be helping to dismantle economically the American middle class. If the opinion of the majority of the people does not matter politically, after all, it’s hard to think that their opinion could matter in any other way—which is to say that arguments like Macedo’s are thusly a kind of intellectual strip-mining operation: they consume the intellectual resources of the past in order to provide a short-term gain for a small number of operators.

They are, in sum, eating their seed-corn.

In that sense, despite the puzzled brows of many of the country’s talking heads, the Trump phenomenon makes a certain kind of potted sense—even if it appears utterly irrational to the elite. Although they might not express themselves in terms that those with elite educations find palatable—in a fashion that, significantly, suggests a return to those Victorian codes of “breeding” and “politesse” that elites have always used against what used to be called the “lower classes”—there really may be an ideological link between a Democratic Party governed by those with elite educations and the current economic reality faced by the majority of Americans. That reality may be the result of the elites’ loss of faith in what even Calhoun called the “fundamental principle, the great cardinal maxim” of democratic government: “that the people are the source of all power.” So, while the organs of elite opinion like The New York Times or other outlets might continue to crank out stories decrying the “irrationality” of Donald Trump’s supporters, it may be that Trumps’ fans (Trumpettes?) are in fact in possession of a deeper rationality than that of those criticizing them. What their votes for Trump may signal is a recognition that, if the Republican Party has become the party of the truly rich, “the 1%,” the Democratic Party has ceased to be the party of the majority and has instead become the party of the professional class: the “10%.” Or, as Frank says, in swapping Republicans and Democrats the nation “merely exchange[s] one elite for another: a cadre of business types for a collection of high-achieving professionals.” Both, after all, disbelieve in the virtues of democracy; what may (or may not) be surprising, while also deeply terrifying, is that supposed “intellectuals” have apparently come to accept that there is no difference between Connacht—and the Other Place.

 

 

**Update: In the hours since I first posted this, I’ve come across two different recent articles in magazines with “New York” in their titles: in one, for The New Yorker, Jill Lepore—a professor of history at Harvard in her day job—argues that “more democracy is very often less,” while the other, written by Andrew Sullivan for New York magazine, is entitled “Democracies End When They Are Too Democratic.” Draw conclusions where you will.

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An Unfair Game

The sheer quantity of brain power that hurled itself voluntarily and quixotically into the search for new baseball knowledge was either exhilarating or depressing, depending on how you felt about baseball.
Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game

“Today, in sports,” wrote James Surowiecki in The New Yorker a couple of years ago, “what you are is what you make yourself into”—unlike forty or fifty years ago, nearly all elite-level athletes have a tremendous entourage of dietitians, strength coaches, skill coaches, and mental coaches to help them do their jobs. But not just athletes: at the team level, coaches and scouts have learned to use data both to recruit the best players and turn that talent into successful strategies. Surowiecki notes for instance that when sports columnist Mark Montieth went back and looked at old NBA games from the 1950s and 60s, he found that NBA coaches at the time “hadn’t yet come up with offenses sophisticated enough to create what are considered good shots today.” That improvement, however, is not limited to sports: Surowiecki also notes that in fields as varied as chess and classical music, airline safety to small-unit infantry tactics, the same basic sorts of techniques have greatly improved performance. What “underlies all these performance revolutions,” Surowiecki says, “is captured by the Japanese term kaizen, or continuous improvement”—that is, the careful analysis of technique. Still, what is more curious about the fact that so many disparate fields have been improved by kaizen-type innovations is not that they can be applied so variously, but that they have not been applied to many other fields: among them, Surowiecki lists medicine and education. Yet the field that might be ripest for the advent of kaizen—and with the greatest payoff for Americans, even greater than the fact that lemon cars are for the most part a thing of the past—is politics.

To be sure, politics doesn’t lend itself particularly well to training in a wind tunnel, as the top-level cyclists Surowiecki discusses do. Nor are politics likely to be improved especially by ensuring, like the Portland Trailblazers do, that everyone in government gets enough rest, or that they eat correctly—although one imagines that in the case of several politicians, the latter might greatly improve their performance. But while the “taking care of the talent” side of the equation might not, in the field of politics, be the most efficient use of resources, certainly the kinds of techniques that have helped teams improve their strategies just might. For example, in baseball, examining statistical evidence for signs of how better to defend against a particular batter has become wildly more popular in recent years—and baseball’s use of that strategy has certain obvious applications to American politics.

That team-level strategy is the “infield shift,” the technique whereby fielders are positioned on the field in unusual structures in order to take account of a particular batter’s tendencies. If, for example, a particular player tends to hit the ball to the left side of the field—a tendency readily observable in this age of advanced statistical analysis in the post-Moneyball era—teams might move the second baseman (on the right side of the infield) to behind second base, or even further left, just as to have an extra fielder where the batter tends to place his hits. According to the Los Angeles Times, the use of the “infield shift” has become far greater than it ever has: the “number of shifts,” the Times’ Zach Helfand wrote last year, “has nearly doubled nearly every year since 2011, from 2,357 to 13,298 last year.” This past season (2015), the use of shifts had exploded again, so that there were 10,262 uses of a shift “by the All-Star break,” Helfand reported. The use of shifts is growing at such an exponential rate, of course, because they work: the “strategy saved 190 runs in the first half this (2015) season, according to estimates from Baseball Info Solutions,” Helfand says. The idea makes intuitive sense: putting players where they are not needed is an inefficient use of a team’s resources.

The infield shift is a strategy, as it happens, that one of the greatest of America’s Supreme Court justices, Earl Warren, would have approved of—because he, in effect, directed the greatest infield shift of all time. About the line of cases now known as the “apportionment cases,” the former Chief Justice wrote that, despite having presided over such famous cases as Brown v. Board of Education (the case that desegregated American schools) or Miranda v. Arizona (which ensured that defendants would be represented by counsel), he was most proud of his role in these cases, which took on the fact that the “legislatures of more than forty states were so unbalanced as to give people in certain parts of them vastly greater voting representation than in others.” In the first of that line, Baker v. Carr, the facts were that whereas the population of the state of Tennessee had grown from 487,380 to 2,092,891 since 1900, and that said population had not been distributed evenly throughout the state but instead was concentrated in urban areas like Nashville and Memphis, still Tennessee had not reapportioned its legislature since 1901. This, said Warren, was ridiculous: in effect, Tennessee’s legislature was not only not shifted, but it was wrongly shifted. If the people of Tennessee were a right-handed pull-hitter (i.e., one that tends to hit to the left side of the field), in other words, Tennessee’s legislature had the second baseman, the shortstop, and the third baseman on the right side of the field—i.e., toward first base, not third.

“Legislators represent people, not trees or acres,” Warren wrote for a later “apportionment case,” Reynolds v. Sims (about Alabama’s legislature, which was, like Tennessee’s, also wildly malapportioned). What Warren was saying was that legislators ought to be where the constituents are—much as baseball fielders ought to be where the ball is likely to be hit. In Reynolds, the Alabama legislature wasn’t: because the Alabama Constitution provided that the state senate would be composed of one senator from each Alabama county, some senate districts had voting populations as much as 41 times that of the least populated. Warren’s work remedied that vast disparity: as a result of the U.S. Supreme Court’s decisions in Baker, Reynolds, and the other cases in the “apportionment” line, nearly every state legislature in the United States was forced to redraw boundaries and, in general, make sure the legislators were where the people are.

Of course, it might be noted that the apportionment cases were decided more than fifty years ago, and that the injustices they addressed have now all been corrected. Yet, it is not merely American state legislatures that were badly misaligned with the American population. After all, if the state senate of Alabama was badly malapportioned through much of the twentieth century and before, it is also true that the Senate of the United States continues to be malapportioned today: if the difference between Alabama’s least populated county and its most in the early 1960s was more than 40 times, the difference between the number of voters in Wyoming, the least populated American state, and California, the most, is now more than 60 times—and yet each state has precisely the same number of senators in the U.S. Senate. These differences, much like infield shifts, have consequences: in such books as Sizing Up the Senate: The Unequal Consequences of Equal Representation, political scientists like Frances E. Lee and Bruce I. Oppenheimer have demonstrated that, for example, “less populous states consistently receive more federal funding than states with more people.” Putting legislators where the people aren’t, in other words, has much the same effect as not shifting a baseball team’s infield: it allows money, and the other goods directed by a legislature, to flow—like hits—in directions that it wouldn’t were there fielders, or legislators, in place to redirect those flows.

To say that moving America’s legislature around would have an instantaneously positive effect on American life, of course, is likely to overstate the effect such a move might make: some batters in the major leagues, like Albert Pujols, have been able to overcome the effects of an infield shift. (Pujols, it seems, bats 28 points higher when a shift is on than when it isn’t, Zach Helfand reported.) Yet, teams still use the shift on Pujols—on the theory, apparently, that even though Pujols might overall bat better, still it is unlikely that he can keep it up, first, and second that on the occasions that he misses “hitting the gaps,” a fielder will be there.

Similarly, although it might be so that, as Senator Everett Dirksen of Illinois argued in the aftermath of 1964’s Reynolds, “the forces of our national life are not brought to bear on public questions solely in proportion to the weight of numbers,” the forces behind such examples as Billy Beane’s Oakland As teams—assembled largely on the weight of the statistics put up by the players—or Japanese car companies—which redesigned workspaces, Surowiecki says, “so workers didn’t have to waste time twisting and turning to reach their tools”—beg to differ: although not every question can be solved by the application of kaizen-like techniques, surely a number of them can.

Among them, it may be, is gun-control legislation, which has continually been held up by structural features of the American Congress that have much to do with malapportionment. Surely, in other words, with regard to gun policy it matters that the Senate is heavily stacked in favor of mostly-rural states. Were it not, it is much easier to imagine the United States having a gun policy much more in line with that of other industrialized democracies. Which, in the light of incidents like the recent shooting deaths in Orlando, is to shine a new light on an old baseball phrase.

That phrase?

“Hit ’em where they ain’t.”

Joe Maddon and the Fateful Lightning 

All things are an interchange for fire, and fire for all things,
just like goods for gold and gold for goods.
—Heraclitus

Chicago Cubs logo
Chicago Cubs Logo

Last month, one of the big stories about presidential candidate and Wisconsin governor Scott Walker was his plan not only to cut the state’s education budget, but also to change state law in order to allow, according to The New Republic, “tenured faculty to be laid off at the discretion of the chancellors and Board of Regents.” Given that Wisconsin was the scene of the Ely case of 1894—which ended with the board of trustees of the University of Wisconsin issuing the ringing declaration: “Whatever may be the limitations which trammel inquiry elsewhere we believe the great state University of Wisconsin should ever encourage that continual and fearless sifting and winnowing by which alone truth can be found”—Walker’s attempt is a threat to the entire system of tenure. Yet it may be that American academia in general, if not Wisconsin academics in particular, are not entirely blameless—not because, as American academics might smugly like to think, because they are so totally radical, dude, but on the contrary because they have not been radical enough: to the point that, as I will show, probably the most dangerous, subversive and radical thinker on the North American continent at present is not an academic, nor even a writer, at all. His name is Joe Maddon, and he is the manager of the Chicago Cubs.

First though, what is Scott Walker attempting to do, and why is it a big deal? Specifically, Walker wants to change Section 39 of the relevant Wisconsin statute so that Wisconsin’s Board of Regents could, “with appropriate notice, terminate any faculty or academic staff appointment when such an action is deemed necessary … instead of when a financial emergency exists as under current law.” In other words, Walker’s proposal would more or less allow Wisconsin’s Board of Regents to fire anyone virtually at will, which is why the American Association of University Professors “has already declared that the proposed law would represent the loss of a viable tenure system,” as reported by TNR.

The rationale given for the change is the usual one of allowing for more “flexibility” on the part of campus leaders: by doing so, supposedly, Wisconsin’s university system can better react to the fast-paced changes of the global economy … feel free to insert your own clichés of corporate speak here. The seriousness with which Walker takes the university’s mission as a searcher for truth might perhaps be discerned by the fact that he appointed the son of his campaign chairman to the Board of Regents—nepotism apparently being, in Walker’s view, a sure sign of intellectual probity.

The tenure system was established, of course, exactly to prevent political appointee yahoos from having anything to say about the production of truth—a principle that, one might think, ought to be sacrosanct, especially in the United States, where every American essentially exists right now, today, on the back of intellectual production usually conducted in a university lab. (For starters, it was the University of Chicago that gave us what conservatives seem to like to think of as the holy shield of the atomic bomb.) But it’s difficult to blame “conservatives” for doing what’s in, as the scorpion said to the frog, their nature: what’s more significant is that academics ever allowed this to happen in the first place—and while it is surely the case that all victims everywhere wish to hold themselves entirely blameless for whatever happens to them, it’s also true that no one is surprised when somebody hits a car driving the wrong way.

A clue toward how American academia has been driving the wrong way can be found in a New Yorker story from last October, where Maria Konnikova described a talk moral psychologist Jonathan Haidt gave to the Society for Personality and Social Psychology. The thesis of the talk? That psychology, as a field, had “a lack of political diversity that was every bit as dangerous as a lack of, say, racial or religious or gender diversity.” In other words, the whole field was inhabited by people who were at least liberal, and many who were radicals, on the ideological spectrum, and very few conservatives.

To Haidt, this was a problem because it “introduced bias into research questions [and] methodology,” particularly concerning “politicized notions, like race, gender, stereotyping, and power and inequality.” Yet a follow-up study surveying 800 social psychologists found something interesting: actually, these psychologists were only markedly left-of-center compared to the general population when it came to something called “the social-issues scale.” Whereas in economic matters or foreign affairs, these professors tilted left at about a sixty to seventy percent clip, when it came to what sometimes are called “culture war” issues the tilt was in the ninety percent range. It’s the gap between those measures, I think, that Scott Walker is able to exploit.

In other words, while it ought to be born in mind that this is merely one study of a narrow range of professors, the study doesn’t disprove Professor Walter Benn Michaels’ generalized assertion that American academia has largely become the “human resources department of the right”: that is, the figures seem to say that, sure, economic inequality sorta bothers some of these smart guys and gals—but really to wind them up you’d best start talking about racism or abortion, buster. And what that might mean is that the rise of so-called “tenured radicals” since the 1960s hasn’t really been the fearsome beast the conservative press likes to make it out to be: in fact, it might be so that—like some predator/prey model from ecological study—the more left the professoriate turns, the more conservative the nation becomes.

That’s why it’s Joe Maddon of the Chicago Cubs, rather than any American academic, who is the most radical man in America right now. Why? Because Joe Maddon is doing something interesting in these days of American indifference to reality: he is paying attention to what the world is telling him, and doing something about it in a manner that many, if not most, academics could profit by examining.

What Joe Maddon is doing is batting the pitcher eighth.

That might, obviously, sound like small beer when the most transgressive of American academics are plumbing the atomic secrets of the universe, or questioning the existence of the biological sexes, or any of the other surely fascinating topics the American academy are currently investigating. In fact, however, there is at present no more important philosophical topic of debate anywhere in America, from the literary salons of New York City to the programming pits of Northern California, than the one that has been ongoing throughout this mildest of summers on the North Side of the city of Chicago.

Batting the pitcher eighth is a strategy that has been tried before in the history of American baseball: in 861 games since 1914. But twenty percent of those games, reports Grantland, “have come in 2015,” this season, and of those games, 112 and counting, have been those played by the Chicago Cubs—because in every single game the Cubs have played in this year, the pitcher has batted in the eighth spot. That’s something that no major league baseball team has ever done—and the reasons Joe Maddon has for tossing aside baseball orthodoxy like so many spit cups of tobacco juice is the reason why, eggheads and corporate lackeys aside, Joe Maddon is at present the most screamingly dangerous man in America.

Joe Maddon is dangerous because he saw something in a peculiarity in the rule of baseball, something that most fans are so inured to they have become unconscious to its meaning. That peculiarity is this: baseball has history. It’s a phrase that might sound vague and sentimental, but that’s not the point at all: what it refers to is that, with every new inning, a baseball lineup does not begin again at the beginning, but instead jumps to the next player after the last batter of the previous inning. This is important because, traditionally, pitchers bat in the ninth spot in a given lineup because they are usually the weakest batters on any team by a wide margin, which means that by batting them last, a manager usually ensures that they do not bat until at least the second, or even third, inning at the earliest. Batting the pitcher ninth enables a manager to hide his weaknesses and emphasize his strengths.

That has been orthodox doctrine since the beginnings of the sport: the tradition is so strong that when Babe Ruth, who first played in the major leagues as a pitcher, came to Boston he initially batted in the ninth spot. But what Maddon saw was that while the orthodox theory does minimize the numbers of plate appearances on the part of the pitcher, that does not in itself necessarily maximize the overall efficiency of the offense—because, as Russell Carleton put it for FoxSports, “in baseball, a lot of scoring depends on stringing a couple of hits together consecutively before the out clock runs out.” In other words, while batting the pitcher ninth does hide that weakness as much as possible, that strategy also involves giving up an opportunity: in the words of Ben Lindbergh of Grantland, by “hitting a position player in the 9-hole as a sort of second leadoff man,” a manager could “increase the chances of his best hitter(s) batting with as many runners on base as possible.” Because baseball lineups do not start at the beginning with every new inning, batting the weakest hitter last means that a lineup’s best players—usually the one through three spots—do not have as many runners on base as they might otherwise.

Now, the value of this move of putting the pitcher eighth is debated by baseball statisticians: “Study after study,” says Ben Lindbergh of Grantland, “has shown that the tactic offers at best an infinitesimal edge: two or three runs per season in the right lineup, or none in the wrong one.” In other words, Maddon may very well be chasing a will-o’-the-wisp, a perhaps-illusionary advantage: as Lindbergh says, “it almost certainly isn’t going to make or break the season.” Yet, in an age in which runs are much scarcer than they were in the juiced-up steroid era of the 1990s, and simultaneously the best teams in the National League (the American League, which does not allow pitchers to bat, is immune to the problem) are separated in the standings by only a few games, a couple of runs over the course of a season may be exactly what allows one team to make the playoffs and, conversely, prevents another from doing the same: “when there’s so little daylight separating the top teams in the standings,” as Lindbergh also remarked, “it’s more likely that a few runs—which, once in a while, will add an extra win—could actually account for the different between making and missing the playoffs.” Joe Maddon, in other words, is attempting to squeeze every last run he can from his players with every means at his disposal—even if it means taking on a doctrine that has been part of baseball nearly since its beginnings.

Yet, why should that matter at all, much less make Joe Maddon perhaps the greatest threat to the tranquility of the Republic since John Brown? The answer is that Joe Maddon is relentlessly focused on the central meaningful event of his business: the act of scoring. Joe Maddon’s job is to make sure that his team scores as many runs as possible, and he is willing to do what it takes in order to make that happen. The reason that he is so dangerous—and why the academics of America may just deserve the thrashing the Scott Walkers of the nation appear so willing to give them—is that American democracy is not so singlemindedly devoted to getting the maximum value out of its central meaningful event: the act of voting.

Like the baseball insiders who scoff at Joe Maddon for scuttling after a spare run or two over the course of 162 games—like the major league assistant general quoted by Lindbergh who dismissed the concept by saying “the benefit of batting the pitcher eighth is tiny if it exists at all”—American political insiders believe that a system that profligately disregards the value of votes doesn’t really matter over the course of a political season—or century. And it is indisputable that the American political system is profligate with the value of American votes. The value of a single elector in the Electoral College, for example, can differ by hundreds of thousands of votes cast by voters each Election Day, depending on the state; while through “the device of geographic—rather than population-based—representation in the Senate, [the system] substantially dilutes the voice and voting power of the majority of Americans who live in urban and metropolitan areas in favor of those living in rural areas,” as one Princeton political scientist has put the point. Or to put it more directly, as Dylan Matthews put it for the Washington Post two years ago, if “senators representing 17.82 percent of the population agree, they can get a majority”—while on the other hand “11.27 percent of the U.S. population,” as represented by the smallest 20 states, “can successfully filibuster legislation.” Perhaps most significantly, as Frances Lee and Bruce Oppenheimer have shown in their Sizing Up the Senate: The Unequal Consequences of Equal Representation, “less populous states consistently receive more federal funding than states with more people.” As presently constructed, in other words, the American political system is designed to waste votes, not to seek all of their potential value.

American academia, however, does not discuss such matters. Indeed, the disciplines usually thought of as the most politically “radical”—usually those in the humanities—are more or less expressly designed to rule out the style of thought (naturalistic, realistic) taken on here: one reason, perhaps, explaining the split in psychology professors between their opinions on economic matters and “cultural” ones observed by Maria Konnikova. Yet just because an opinion is not registered in academia does not mean it does not exist: imbalances are inevitably corrected, which undoubtedly will occur in this matter of the relative value of an American vote. The problem of course is that such “price corrections,” when it comes to issues like this, are not particularly known for being calm or smooth. Perhaps there is one possible upside however: when that happens—and there is no doubt that the day of what the song calls “the fateful lightning” will arrive, be it tomorrow or in the coming generations—Joe Maddon may receive his due as not just a battler in the frontlines of sport, but a warrior for justice. That, at least, might not be entirely surprising to his fellow Chicagoans—who remember that it was not the flamboyant tactics of busting up liquor stills that ultimately got Capone, but instead the slow and patient work of tax accountants and auditors.

You know, the people who counted.